


The Slender, Writhing, Tumultuous Hunter

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cunnilingus, Devoured, Disembowelment, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fight Sex, Purple Prose, Rough Oral Sex, Snuff, Vore, being eaten from the bottom to the top, old english attempt, organ eating, the beast blood is upon him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-07 09:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: The Hunter returns from the cradle whence Alfred first appeared, for erudition or remittance, she does not know. She gets neither.A/N: For Kinktober Day 28 (vore). This is the darkest thing I have written in recent memory. Please heed the warning in the tags. Thank you! <3





	The Slender, Writhing, Tumultuous Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadunderthefloor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=deadunderthefloor).



‘What would thoust do to become a Martyr?’ A wiser soul once asked. To which there was no reply. 

Dying in the fulfillment of such causes would be the sweetest of deaths according to some, and yet there was not the beguiling honor to the atrocities committed across the marbled birth of floor, ceiling, vestibule and all the staring faces of stone whose expressions hung like reality within dreams. Blood ran rivulets down cherub cheeks of frozen inanimation - running like sap corked from an ent hide following some hunter too much a dullard to see their differences. Sightless eyes of long past Cainhurst ancestry cried as if to weep for their fallen queen. 

The Great Ones, if possible, were simpering at the sorry state of it all. Coiling and hugging toppled architecture behind plain sight; watching with twisting orbs at the scenes that would unfold over and over again. 

The Huntress, no more a part of this letting than the statues themselves, stood against the wall besetting the swinging throne room doors. The vision before thine eyes was a haunt - a spook - a waxing moon of red, bleeding dry a man of sanity til he had nothing left in him but madness.

Dark moors brooded cold through the halls with winds which felt too much like slime. The Queen of The Vilebloods, whose blood was that of the Great Ones, same bearer of the good blood, bubbled about the crowned Alfred as he breached the halls with guffawing victory; coated in crimson and ichor that seemed to pulsate like a parasitic infection. Let Annalise rise from this, indeed. Where her outsides began and the insides ended were too similar to distinguish and what poor sod would attempt such?

Alfred stood, his arms outstretched to expose his efforts aboard a blank gathering, bathed in the refuse of fanatical madness, beseeching his glory while stomping on wiggling masses of tissue that tried to cobble itself back together. Annalise was no more a conglomeration of bone, vein, and muscle than the murky soup from whence they’d all came - the vomit of the Old Blood and the piss of nothing. 

The death bouquet of Master Logarius still lingered within the wind outside, and yet the hypocrisy taking place inside the throne room stank more than broken internal pustules and fetid irony. 

Hunter of Beasts, doomed to die and awaken and fall and rise; a woman of short stature and guarded eyes bore witness to a man seemingly so composed not long ago as he reveled in his slaughter. There was no corpse beneath his feet. No face to lay a sodden red doily over, just chunks of squirming viscera dripping in piles about Alfred’s person.

His laughter ran within domed metal, important to him and the Holy Church, but not to her. The faceless helmet could not contain the glee that infected him, though it did hide the twisted horror no doubt casting a once comely face. 

The Huntress merely watched beneath a long brimmed hat, puffy feathers fluttering gently against the breeze flowing forth from outside. She listened as hysteria consumed him, lingered a moment more before quietly slipping away to tend to other matters. For now, Alfred was stricken by insanity more preposterous than the likes he claimed to destroy - for now, he was too unpredictable to seek answers from.

Later, she told herself. 

When his bloodlust abated, and the vigors of corruption were but nightmares to them both, then… and only then, would The Huntress return for the knowledge he promised. Sadly, ancient knowings were not his to give. Only once the Vileblood Queen was but dried paste, did she realize Alfred, had he the sense to pass down such knowledge, could not. 

A man whose own heritage laid under such obscurity had no right to guarded secrets unbeknown to most. Had he greater awareness, his tune would have changed, and she’d not find herself walking the shaded pergola where bone dust mixed with souls older than time; the Cathedral Ward a sticky eye over her form. 

Beneath the high moon, the effect of scattered night glowed between overarching growth. The painted aura was enchanting; bipartisan to what she witnessed at the end of the walkway. 

At the expense of his honor, The Huntress approached Alfred with the care and quiet she’d extend an enemy. She met his back, studying the way the wind curled the bloodied hem of his cloak heels. His posture was demure, sunken. Broad shoulders lifted with pauldrons of steel layers rose and fell hurried; uneven. 

Some long moments between their last encounter and this shared present moment, he had changed. 

The odor of the beast clung about him like malaise fog. The Hunter of the Vilebloods was stricken it would seem. 

He knelt before the unmarked mausoleum; one long-fingered hand caressing the bone-colored marker with unrequited passion. 

Detritus, vines and night flowers coiled in sleeping snake figurines down the cobbled path, stretching overhead in a living and dying canopy of mossy green. It was there, beneath the curtain of vegetation which wafted scents of dirt and poisonous sap, that Alfred turned to spot the intruder who dared spy upon his vigil. 

Dirtied bangs of gold hung like frayed rope over her forehead. His face was bereft of blood though his inner coats, cloak, and the thick padded cotton beneath appeared blackly stained. Drenched; effused in the vile blood. The bad blood. It 'twas nothing like his precious good blood. 

Upon slender boots, The Huntress stood; one leg poised parallel behind the right, rapier drawn at the ready. 

The former protégé and murderer of Master Logarius rose to his boiled boots. Never once did thine eyes waiver from the lady before him. There’d been many a man and woman with sanity more stable than his, whom she’d given no quarter to. 

Rotting beast vapors grew, and in the darkness of the pergola and moonlight, eyes of glittery insanity were clear as fire licking the belly of a pit. Shame to have found Alfred so far gone without a kiss farewell. 

Slaying him without firstly commiserating violence would be no different than downing a beast-scourged huntsman, even had she not felt some inkling of affection for him. Her opinion of his mantra changed nothing for the hole his demise would leave on Old Yharnam. To see such sanity crumble beneath a task finally finished, was a travesty to be certain. But, she would do as she must, for she was a Huntress first and a woman second. 

Voice but a shadow of its former delicacy, Alfred spoke with the tongue of a plague victim. “Oh-ho… haaaa’rrr… Good evening, Hunterrr. My… but the moon is so… heavy. These guts; so heavy. By the good blood!- but does not the sight of it all famish you as it does I? Do you ache for more as I ache?!”

She did not. Would not ache as he did. 

His eyes widened at her silence, casting the aquiline nose and flat bones leading his face into an opalescent pallor. He was ill. His mind was gone. Only one pervasive thought remained: his duty. It was bastardized by hunger - by the need to cleanse and consume and free flesh from its corrupt form. Same as the huntsmen in the streets, killing tainted and virgin blood alike in mindless duty. Ironic that they murdered those they hoped to protect.

Alfred’s mind was pockmarked by beasthood just the same as so many citizens left behind by the Holy Church. Irony upon irony. 

The moment his arms turned outwards, long fingers stretched in a strained display, was the moment she lifted her blade. Alfred gazed upon her, ignorant of the rapier destined for his hide, and charged forward; moving as if through sheer viscosity. 

The moon watched. 

The Great Ones bore witness. 

The Huntress lunged forth. 

Opposite steels touched, skirting like a scream until both figures slid back, readying another blow. Her blood boiled as it often did whilst in a duel, but it was Alfred who hungered with the beast blood, just as The Huntress had feared. 

Snarling, wet noises, better suited for rabid dogs, fell from teeth suddenly edged by needle points. A maw of ravenous canines opened for her throat, and though Alfred bashed each strike away with thrusts of holy steel, he left his flank open. With a slash faster than the spark of a hammer, the belt holding his cloak about his shoulder snipped and with it went the fluttering of faded-blue fabric. 

He bled thickly. The sight, as abysmal yet victorious as it was, made her pause. 

For a moment, The Hunter sounded himself. “Don’t stop fighting, Good Hunter. Your blade is better equipped than my own, so slay me! Drain me and praise the good blood!”

For a man in the throes of beasthood, who desired death before he was entirely gone, Alfred did not offer an easy dance. She dashed and kicked back against ancient podiums with dead and dried flower petals that fluttered to the stones. The Huntress ducked and dodged claws and fangs; holding her own against mighty pawing grapples that would rend weaker souls into shreds. 

He bit for vulnerable and guarded places alike, looking for anything to sink his teeth within, but too often she was faster… of the times where she wasn’t, was the last time the upper hand was hers. The second he had her… he had her as a frog did a fly; a mongrel a bone.

Alfred’s eyes - previously a jade green - glowed with the beast, crunching dozens of fangs through the boiled leathers wrapping her hip. Beautiful cotton layers were torn away, leaving the rest in tatters to flutter where his cloak had fallen. Two manic slashes ruined her petticoats, and a fistful of garter took away the rest. 

The air of Cathedral Hall touched the wet trove between her thighs and the cream of bare skin from ribs to shin. 

The Huntress twisted in cantankerous flight, naked like a plucked birdling with clipped wings. Reaching for her rapier, though the blade was far and the teeth that hounded her flesh had closed in, was as innate as the scream she barcoded against his bite.

Blood flooded. Welled and streamed. Alfred’s bulbous tongue folded and unfurled around her hip; sliding down a ridge of bone to the soft swell of belly and further down. She expected death but received unexpected pleasure instead. The wet appendage maneuvered betwixt her thighs to the sodden flesh inside. Like a skittering snake, it hollowed her out; fattened inside and thrust.

She was left grappling around hard, unmoving hands filled with her nubile skin. Ropes of drools coated down her legs and rump, mixing with the grit over ancient cobblestones. Alfred snarled, guffawed with a tongue stolen inside her body, and shook his stretched mouth around her mound; fitting closer. 

Seconds of painful bliss transcended the fluttering muscle inside her ribs, forcing lubrication from her body to better accept the pistoning tongue that stretched and wrung within. 

Expected outcomes were dashed by the hot burning euphoria that blew through nerves untested for thousands of days and nights. 

A mouth of nasty knives extended as she writhed - fingers pulling at blond locks tangled with dried blood. Alfred's teeth clamped down, reckoning exquisite pain the like of which she’d only dreamt of. 

Her groin laid between teeth, penetrated thusly by a rotating, coiling tongue that pulled forth essences of both blood and binding arousal. She sobbed, arching across the stone until her nails found their seams and clung instead to mossy latches than greasy hair. 

She sang tears to the wind. Stripped, ravaged and eaten. 

Alfred took from her a little death as quickly as a flower plucked from a grove of nightshade. She twitched in ended throes, churning hips while beating at his face until his eyes were swollen near shut but his grin remained. Gaunt, inhuman shapes spread wide like a half moon smirking with serrated teeth. 

“Release-“ she tried. Failed. 

The Huntress succumbed to the duality of pleasure and pain with tears and visions of cosmic bliss, spun with agony and crimson. 

Alfred’s teeth sank more rooted, and with a crunch, he swallowed her… flesh and bone, and ate further up her body, taking out portions with gaping mouthfuls and moaning satiation. He fisted her innards, rowing ropes towards his gulping mouth like a man sipping on divinity. He ate her alive while tears ran down his face. In the end, even then, there was humanity left in him. 

Bite by bite. Swallow by thick, wet swallow she was devoured. 

It was not the pain but the shock that finally welcomed her under. The nuzzle of lips, tongue, and teeth in her open belly ventured forth with her into The Hunter’s Dream where even upon waking from death, she was haunted by the sensations, but worst of all… she quietly longed for them again. 

Whatever became of Alfred, The Huntress never knew for a certainty, but as she walked the ruins of Old Yharnam, he was never far from her thoughts, fancies, and nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a comment letting me know what worked for you or what didn't.
> 
> Thank you to Flesh Dust for betaing! <3
> 
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